Taylor’s tears mixed with the rain as she stood and looked at the casket while the minister said a few words. Inside, she felt nauseated. She wasn’t sure she could hold the contents of her stomach. The feeling was more than just sadness, grief, or loss. Taylor could feel the presence of something dark and scary. She’d been deeply troubled since the church service. She had carried that feeling to the cemetery, and it intensified.

What she sensed was terror from someone fearful about being caught—from a person close by.

It can’t be.

Whoever had done this to Katelyn, whoever had resigned the teenager to a casket the color of a bakery box, was there … among them.

chapter 23

THE EXCUSE FOR REVISITING THE BERKLEY HOUSE was the hideous scarf that Taylor had purposely left behind. With her sister off somewhere with Colton, Taylor took it upon herself to do what needed to be done. First, she stopped by the Timberline, but its owner wasn’t there. She saw Katelyn’s mother in her office behind the hostess station, looking grim as she typed on the keyboard of the old CRT that filled half of her tiny desk. Since Taylor didn’t want to talk to her, anyway, she quietly departed for their home next door.

Rain had left the remnants of snow on the sidewalk between the restaurant and house number 23 like a gray Slurpee. With each soggy step, Taylor wished she’d sprayed her lavender Uggs with more water repellent when her mother had suggested it. Hayley did. Hayley always did the practical thing. Taylor could feel the cold wetness pick at the tips of her toes, the chill working its way up her legs and the rest of her body.

Harper Berkley answered the door. His face was ashen and the stubble on his chin suggested that he probably hadn’t shaved in at least a day or two. His eyes were the saddest Taylor had ever seen. Katelyn was always close to her father, in the way that teenage girls often are. It wasn’t because their fathers were so much more wonderful; it was just that mothers always seemed to think that whatever road map they’d taken to get where they were would have been smoother if only they’d listened to their own moms. Of course, no teenage girl really wants to know that her mom had lived a life much like her own—twenty or thirty years ago.

“I’m sorry to bug you, Mr. Berkley,” she said.

“Hi, Taylor.” Harper was one of the few in Port Gamble, outside of her own family, who usually got the twins’ names correct on the first attempt.

“That’s me,” she said, not sure about what more she should say that she hadn’t already. She was sad about what had happened to Katelyn. She was guilty that she hadn’t been “there” for her. Seldom at a loss for words, she was embarrassed after the service when it came time for people to file up and say something nice about the deceased, and she was unable to do so.

“What can I do for you?”

She took a breath. “I left my scarf here the other day. My aunt Jolene made it for me.”

Katelyn’s dad opened the door wider and motioned for Taylor to come inside. “Cold out there,” he said. “Let’s look for it. I don’t know if I’ve seen it.”

He shut the door behind them.

“You’d know it if you had,” Taylor said, with a slight indication in her voice that the scarf might be memorable for the wrong reasons. “My aunt is nice, but the stuff she makes us …”

Harper smiled faintly. “I understand.”

Taylor looked beyond the foyer. The Christmas tree was still up, lights twinkling and casting a strangely cheery glow into the living room of what had to be the most pitiful place in Port Gamble. Through the kitchen doorway, she could see a mountain of dishes piled up everywhere. No sign of that obnoxious grandmother, which was good. Katelyn’s father led her to the hall tree a few steps inside the door, reached over to the top hook, and fished out the scarf, pushing aside a silver and black trench coat. Taylor knew the garment instantly. She hadn’t seen it in a while. It was a Burberry knockoff that Katelyn had bought on eBay. She remembered how Katelyn was showing off her purchase by her locker at Kingston High. She was beaming, but not overly so. After all, it was a knockoff, but a pretty good one.

“Oh, Katie,” Starla Larsen had said as she passed by the show-andtell scene. “Another one of your auction winnings? It is so cute. I love the slimming silhouette on you.”

“Thanks, Starla,” Katelyn said, obviously unaware that her friend had dissed her.

With an LED–bright smile, no less.

Taylor remembered how she had felt when she observed that encounter. Starla was being cruel, needlessly so, and Katelyn just kind of stood there and let her be. Why didn’t she tell her to F-off or something along those lines? Katelyn had it in her to push back. But not then. It was as if Katelyn were some kind of abused child, seeking the approval of a parent who never loved her—trying, but failing, then doing it all over again.

As the memory spun back into her consciousness, Taylor noticed a slip of paper protruding from a pocket of the faux Burberry trench.

She looked over at Katelyn’s dad and gently touched her throat with her fingertips. “Mr. Berkley, I’ve got something stuck in my throat. Can I have a glass of water, please?”

“Of course,” he said, turning in the direction of the cluttered kitchen.

Taylor lingered a half a second and grabbed the paper. It had been wadded, smoothed out, and carefully folded. She didn’t know why, but her heart started to beat faster as she unfolded it. Her eyes widened.

In typed, block letters it said:

“Coming?” Harper called from the kitchen sink.

Without a second of hesitation, Taylor shoved the paper into the pocket of her jacket and secured it decisively with the pull of a zipper.

“No need,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m good. Thanks for the scarf. Take care, Mr. Berkley.”

Taylor didn’t wait for a response. She wanted to get out of there, right then. She twisted the doorknob and hurried outside into the slushy afternoon, her hand touching the pocket holding the note. Some younger kids were throwing wet snowballs in the field next to what had been old stables—before horses ceded their role to automobiles in Port Gamble. The kids’ laughter was wholly at odds with what Taylor was feeling right then.

Fear.

The note was like a heartbeat in her pocket, pulsing, and urging her to get home. Its discovery was huge. It told Taylor that whoever had been talking to Katelyn online had been close enough to her to give her a written, real message.

It wasn’t a long walk to number 19 by any means, but Taylor made it there in record time. She called hello to her father typing in his office and ran upstairs to her sister’s bedroom. Hayley barely looked up. She was immersed in the forensics book she got for Christmas.

“Taylor,” she said, her eyes transfixed to the contents of the page, “did you know forensic science was first used to solve a crime that occurred in 44 BC?”

Taylor knew better than to cut her sister off. Hayley liked to share her little factoids. And there was no sign of Colton, which was kind of a relief. Despite the bombshell in her pocket, a little slack was in order.

“Not since CSI went on the air?” she pondered, sure her sister didn’t hear her.

“You know, when Caesar was stabbed to death by Roman senators, a doctor named Antistius looked at the body and determined who the guilty senators were. Nobody’s sure how, but he did it.”

“Fascinating,” Taylor said, pulling out the slip of paper.

“Yeah, that’s how forensic science got its name. The doctor, medical examiner, or whatever he was, presented his findings in the Roman forum. Forensics is Latin for ‘belonging to the forum.’”